The Man Sat at the Bar
by Nyiestra
Summary: The team's rescue at the end of Firing Line goes wrong. Dark!fic. Character deaths implied and shown.


**Title:** The Man Sat at the Bar

**Summary:** The team's rescue at the end of "Firing Line" goes wrong.

**Genre:** Drama, ANGST!

**Rating:** T

**Warning:** VERY dark. VERY DARK. Character deaths implied, shown.

**Disclaimer:** No matter how I wish I owned them, some dreams don't come true. If you sue me, all you'll end up with is debt.

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The man sat at the bar, baseball cap pulled low over his face as a signal that any curious onlookers were best off leaving him alone. He downed his… sixth? seventh? He'd lost count… shot of Jack Daniels and set the glass down, staring into it.

He'd failed. The one time they really needed him, the one time they couldn't get out without him, the one time it really meant death, and he'd failed them. They'd been counting on him even before he'd let them in on the plan… what little he'd been able to tell them… and afterward even more.

And he'd known that. He'd known it was all on his shoulders. That was why he'd worked with Frankie, and gone along with Stockwell, though what he really wanted to do was tie both of them to posts in front of a line of guys with guns.

He wondered how it would feel to hold a gun to the back of Stockwell's head. He'd had lives in his hands before, but not like that, not where he didn't have to kill a man.

Not where he just wanted to.

_Now_ he wanted to. He wanted to see that worm beg for his life. He wanted to make Stockwell pay for playing his little games once and for all.

And he wanted Stockwell to know why he was going to die. And who was behind it.

He wanted to know if it was worth it to Stockwell, to die for setting up the team.

He wanted to teach Stockwell just exactly who he'd messed with, and what a mistake that had been.

But that coward had run, and he had the whole damn federal government behind him. Even his CIA training wouldn't help him catch up to Stockwell. Hell, his CIA training was how he knew he'd never get to plant a bullet in the man's brain.

He called the bartender over, asking for the bottle this time, and something in his tone must have told the man not to ask, not to interfere, because he just nodded and walked away, casting slightly concerned glances at him as he moved on to other customers.

He shoved the glass away from him, tossed far too much money on the bar, and swung his legs off the stool. Standing with effort, stumbled out of the building, taking the bottle with him. He was crazy, yes, but not so crazy as to carry out his plans while cold sober. And he wasn't nearly drunk enough yet.

He slid behind the wheel of the rented car, knowing that while he wasn't drunk enough for his plans, he _was_ too drunk to drive, but not caring at all. Pulling out of the lot, he headed for the beach. The house was the only place, out of any that the team had ever shared, that had any significance. Scammed mansions, penthouse suites… Face's attempts at compensating for the life he didn't have. But the beach house had had a sort of semi-permanence that was the closest they ever had come to stability.

Luckily – or maybe unluckily, depending on how you looked at it – he made it to the beach house in one piece, parking haphazardly in the drive. Grabbing both the bottle and the gun he'd stuck in the glove box, he got out of the car and stumbled his way across the sand, falling to his knees more than once before making it to the water. It was hard enough to trudge through sand sober, never mind if you were well on your way to being drunk.

He fell unceremoniously to his knees at the edge of the wet sand, setting the gun down briefly to open the bottle. Tossing the cap away, watching it sink quickly below the surf, he picked up the gun just as he raised the bottle to his lips.

It was half empty before he lowered it again, and he was too drunk to feel sick. He could hardly feel the gun in his hand, as numbness was taking over.

That was the first part of his plan, and it was accomplished.

He wondered what Hannibal would think of his plan.

Too bad Hannibal was dead and couldn't hear about it.

He glanced at the bottle in his hand, frowning at it as the words on the label danced around too quickly for him to read. Narrowing his eyes, he demanded that the words stop moving, and when they didn't, he struggled to his feet and hurled it out into the ocean.

He could see the splash. The water was swimming in front of his eyes. He laughed at that thought… the water swimming.

He rose onto his knees, just barely managing not to fall forward into the surf, and stared at the gun in his hand. It had been Face's, which was why he'd taken it. None of the others had any meaning.

Slowly, he raised it, pressing the barrel hard against his head, above his ear.

This was what it felt like to hold a life in his hands, a life he wanted to take, a man he wanted to punish.

This was what it was like to know he was going to die, to know why, to know who was behind it.

And then, in a brief moment of clarity, he pulled the trigger.

He fell forward into the water, the gun falling from a lifeless hand, as the water swept over a body now free from the pain and guilt that had plagued his mind.


End file.
